


11:44

by captainmarvel (DramionesLady)



Category: Ocean's (Movies), Ocean's 8
Genre: Bisexual Debbie Ocean, F/F, Heist Wives, Lou: outwardly refined but inwardly a disaster, Post-Movie, Sexual Tension, Translation Available, a drop of angst, but pretty soft simultaneously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramionesLady/pseuds/captainmarvel
Summary: Debbie and Lou have some figuring out to do, with the help of a diner, detective impressions, and some sentimental timekeeping.





	11:44

**Author's Note:**

> Ocean's 8 was gay as hell, I just wish it'd been more explicit
> 
> Alternatively titled: 'Of Diners and Debbie', 'Sapphic Disaster Moms', or 'Cate Blanchett is my sexuality'
> 
> I sat down to write Become the target and the gun CH3, and this happened instead. Whoops!

Lou's sat at her table ( _their_ table), in the unassuming diner, stirring an ungodly amount of sugar into her coffee, when the realisation hits her.

She's been frequenting this place regularly, since the Met, since the team had split the cash and split town, whenever her bike is low on fuel. 

It's a touchstone, a grounding point, a reminder that the past few weeks really happened.

When her fuel tank ticks down towards empty, she heads back to the city, and this diner is her first port of call. 

And that's what sends her reeling. She's a _regular_ here. Same order, same table, same day of the week, more often than not. Hell, the waitress even knows her name. It's a bad habit in her line of work, to have a routine. Predictability has a predictable end for con artists, and Lou doesn't much feel like trading in her leathers for an orange jumpsuit. 

Even so, she keeps coming back. Table by the window, feet propped up on the chair across from her, an assortment of dishes under her nose, covering the table's waxy surface. 

Lou keeps her eyes low, or tries to appear to, at least. She's developed something of a tick, sitting at this table, craning her neck towards the doorway, searching, always, but never finding. 

And it's pathetic, really. Lou's never been one to pine, knows it's a ridiculous fantasy, to even imagine; to imagine that Debbie could come sauntering in, head held high, the gleam of a new con in her eyes.

It's a distinctive look.

It's only cons and... well, there's only one other thing that ignites that look in Debbie, and it doesn't bode well for her to think about in public. 

Lou bites down on the little wooden stirrer she was using in her coffee, feeling it give way under her teeth. But that only serves to turn her mind back to a dangerous train of thought, to casino hotels, Debbie’s eyes burning bright and fiery; from their score, from teeth grazing thighs beneath the sheets. Lou snatches the stirrer away from herself, sending it clattering onto the floor. 

But, no, Lou doesn't pine, and if she ever had, Debbie's stint in prison had been a lesson in breaking the habit. 

Lou knows she could just text her. After all, Debbie had no issue doing so, to signal her return, and that had come after five years. Even as the thought occurs to her, though, Lou knows she won't actually do it.

Separate ways, that's what Debbie had insisted on. Let the dust settle, no contact.

Lou tugs at the collar of her shirt with one hand, taking up a huge forkful of omelette with the other. 

_Fucking Ocean._

She'd been fine, until that first text had come through. The vodka business was dull, maybe, but comfortably profitable, and Lou wasn't anyone's second in command. 

One text though, just a handful of bloody pixels on her screen, and she'd brushed it aside like it was nothing. 

Lou stabs into her side of bacon with a little more force than is actually necessary, piling her fork high with a bit of everything. 

And in her mind it's Debbie, sat across from her, offering her the fork, and yes, Lou had put up some token resistance that day, but she was always going to take the bite. Couldn't help herself. 

It was Boston all over again. The day they'd first met. Lou had still been fresh to the game, and unwisely chosen Debbie as her mark. Debbie had seen straight through her, but played along, and before Lou had realised what was happening she was ensnared, paying for a steak dinner, and planning to heist an events yacht. 

That job had ended with them eating wedding cake on the boat, cruising around the harbour in the autumn air, and that was that. Some things just bonded you for life. 

Lou sets down her fork, checking her watch. It wasn't that she expected, hypothetically, to see Debbie at a particular time, but she always waited until after 11:44 to take her leave. It was a system they'd developed, ages ago. The eleven meant the two of them, side by side, and the fours referenced the perfect sized crew, split in two between them. 

It was sentimental, some part of Lou's brain begrudgingly admitted, but they'd been young, and it worked, so it had stuck. 

Any situation where they needed to meet, anywhere, it was at that time. So Lou makes sure, ridiculously, she’s always in the diner when the minute comes.  

Her watch reads 11:49. Time to be going. 

_I've got too fucking soft._

Lou tosses a handful of notes on her table (a distinctly average tip, to pass under the radar), brushing her hair from her eyes as she stands, taking up her motorcycle helmet. The bell over the diner door chimes as she leaves, and Lou strides out into the bustle of the city, towards where her bike is parked.  She’s narrowing her eyes, observing the paint job below her seat, thinking about how she needs a touch up, when she’s jolted from the thought by a voice.

“I can tell by the cut of your jacket that you’re an Australian,” the voice calls out, suddenly, and Lou stops dead in her tracks.  The faux-Sherlock deductions, that’s an in-joke only one other woman knows.  Lou turns on her heel, and impossibly, it’s Debbie Ocean, reclining on a bench, watching the world go by, completely ignoring the odd looks she’s getting.

Lou approaches, looking the other woman up and down.  Her eyes catch on the ridiculously form-fitting pair of blue jeans, and over the knee boots Debbie’s sporting.  She’s also wearing a trench coat and sunglasses, apparently leaning into the whole detective spiel.

_She’s actually trying to kill me. RIP Lou, killed by the sight of Debbie’s thighs clad in denim._

“And I can tell by your presence here that you’re breaking the rules,” is what Lou says, in an impressively calm tone, given the direction of her thoughts.  Lou perches next to Debbie, legs akimbo, staring at the slice of bench that separates her from the other woman. The one rule; no contact after the completion of a con for at least two months.

Debbie adjusts her sunglasses, peering over the top of them at Lou, “I’m the boss, I get to break the rules.”

Lou rolls her eyes, then gives Debbie her own distinctive look.  It’s the one she’d sent her the night of the Met, when they’d locked eyes across the street.  It means ‘to be continued’, preferably when there are less clothes involved.  But for the two of them, well, It’s been a while since that was the case.

Over five years, in fact. There were moments, in the heat of this last job, where Lou thought about it, leaning over, touching her mouth to Debbie’s. They’d been flirtatious, there was no doubt about it. When they were alone on the beach, she’d been so close.  She was angry, though, and it wouldn’t have been right.  Since then, the chances just kept slipping away.  There were conversations to be had first, Lou kept telling herself.  They just hadn’t come yet.  

“Are you satisfied, now that art-boy is behind bars?” Lou asks.  _No time like the present to get the conversation going._    

“Can you still not even say his name?” Debbie asks.  

“I don’t see how you can,” Lou retorts.  “He’s the reason you went down.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you, Lou.” Debbie runs a hand over the arm of the bench, the movement infused with frustrated energy.  

“I know we were going through a rough patch, babe, I just didn’t think you’d get yourself thrown in prison to get away from me,” Lou quips.

“Don’t do that,” Debbie says.

“Do what?” 

“You know what, asshole.  Don’t re-write history so it’s more comfortable for you to swallow. Becker conned me. He wasn’t conning you. _I_ wasn’t conning you.”

“You still went with him,” Lou mutters. 

“You still pushed me away,” Debbie says, tapping the toe of her boot into Lou’s shin. Lou traps Debbie’s foot with her own, taking the chance to pin down a tiny part of her whilst she can. 

The pair fall into a silence, at a standstill.  There’s truth in both of their words. Lou leans back, resting an arm over the back of the bench, so nearly grazing Debbie’s shoulder.  Debbie lets her.  

“And how are the kids?” Debbie says, before the silence turns into anything more bitter. She shifts, just a little, allowing Lou’s arm to brush over her hair.  

“How d’you know I’ve spoken to any of them?” Lou asks, angling herself to look at Debbie head-on. Their crew, their six ‘kids’.  Amita had started that, referring to them both as ‘Mom’.  It had felt uncanny, to play at a role that had once seemed like a genuine possibility for them both.  They’d talked about kids, once or twice, before.  

“Well, I got the house in the divorce, you got them,” Debbie shrugs, hands out, palms upwards, in an ‘it is what it is’ gesture.  

“All rule breakers, contacting me and each other,” Lou says, “they obviously got that from you.”

“Honey, I take that as a compliment,” Debbie smiles.  Lou notices that Debbie hasn’t attempted to extract her foot.  _Progress?_ Lou will take it.  

“I came to the cemetery, after,” Lou confesses in return. “I just couldn’t bring myself to walk through the door.”     

“I know,” Debbie says.  Lou looks over at her, surprised. Debbie lets out a small laugh.  “The engine on that bike of yours isn’t exactly subtle.”

“You could have come after me,” the words leave Lou’s mouth before she can consider them.  They have Debbie looking surprised, and Lou realises her mistake.  Debbie had told her same thing, at the trial, after Becker. Lou could’ve — should’ve — gone after her then.  If she had… well, this conversation would’ve happened five years ago, and Debbie wouldn’t know what solitary confinement feels like.  

“Hypocrite,” Debbie and Lou say at the same time.  They share a small smile, something tentative, but real.

Neither of them are shy people, of course, but there’s something to be said for taking things slowly, like the grace of a long-haul con.  It makes the payoff all the more rewarding.  

“Lou?” Debbie asks, and Lou makes a noise of acknowledgement, “Do you want to come home?”

It’s an innocent suggestion, but it still has Lou shifting in her seat, has her stomach flooding with heat, merely at the possibilities that little sentence entails.  Debbie places a hand on Lou’s knee, and it feels like the fabric there bursts aflame.  

“What happened to ‘Only I can break the rules’?” Lou doesn’t know why she’s asking, why she isn’t pulling Debbie onto the back of her bike already.  Lou leans forwards, taps on Debbie’s sunglasses with her index finger, sliding them down so they can make eye contact.  

Debbie’s looking at her, with that signature stare.  The hunger-for-one-of-two-things stare. Maybe Debbie doesn’t want to take this slow.  They’ve waited long enough, after all. 

“Have you planned a new heist?” Lou murmurs, not daring herself to think of the other possibility.  “Want me to get the team back together?” Lou doesn’t think that’s the case for a moment, and maybe she’s being purposely naive, but she doesn’t make assumptions, however much she wants them to be true.

Debbie shakes her head, just a minuscule movement from side to side, and Lou’s hand drops to her lap.

“I had something else in mind,” Debbie tilts her head like she’s admitting something, leaning forwards, and Lou can’t move.  Debbie’s hand leaves Lou’s knee, reaching to brush back Lou’s hair.  Debbie’s lips brush over the soft skin of Lou’s ear, planting the shadow of a kiss there, and she whispers, “take me home, Lou.”

There’s more to be said, of course.  More conversations to be had.

But for now, Lou gets to her feet, with Debbie beside her, and shatters the rules to pieces.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you have a spare moment, comments are much appreciated :)
> 
> **EDIT** Thanks to [BeckyKas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeckyKas/profile) this work has been translated into Russian, and is available to read [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7030533)


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